Love is a Thing
by awaylaughing
Summary: From the very beginning, America and Canada have known exactly who they wanted to be with. De-anon, human names used, Am/Can/Am
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), some violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedual, I'll never follow it.

xXxXx

It starts, not in at a summit, but during a meeting with the EU. And it does not start with Francis.

"So, like, has anyone slept with America?" Poland, ever considerate, throws the question out there with almost no preamble the minute there is a lull in the conversation. The various nations of Europe sit there stunned for a moment before someone speaks up. This time it is Francis.

The Frenchman shakes his head ruefully, leaning back in his chair, "well, I have not, sadly, but I assume rosbif did something to him has a child."

Arthur balks, looking beyond offended, "I did not such thing! And who do you think you're trying to fool you pervert, surely you did something during that blasted Revolution!" The Englishman's eyebrows are drawn together, his face red.

Francis just shakes his head again, "Non. You think he was interested? Gilbert always had him so exhausted he was prone to dropping to sleep before he reached his tent."

This, naturally, causes more than one eyebrow to go up, and poor Prussia isn't around to defend himself. "So America has slept with Prussia?" The looks on both Francis' and Arthur's faces are ones off growing horror.

Spain, who has been busy fending off Lovino until that moment speaks up "no way, Gilbert was still upset about Brandenburg, do you not remember?" Francis does, he has a very long memory after all, but he also remembers something else entirely.

"What about you, Antoine, you spent a few years in the south did you not, mon ami?"

Antonio only grins brightly, "oh no no, I only have eyes for my Lovi!" Lovino, ever reliable, responds by trying to stab him with a pen. Francis, satisfied with the answer goes silent, as do the rest of those in the room, until Poland speaks up again.

"So, like, no one has, like, ever, ya know, done it with America?" There is a chorus of "no"s, "I haven't"s and one "Nyet, he has refused to become one with Russia." An oddly silent Germany just sighs.

"Meeting adjourned," he tells the room sourly, there is simply no getting anyone's attention once virgins are mentioned, it has always been thus and most likely always will. The nations almost leap to their feet before their sense of decorum sets in and they gladly shuffle out of the room until only Poland and the blushing nation next to him remain.

"I so totally told you Liet." Poland says, popping a piece of gum into his mouth, "it isn't like, you, America is like, a total virgin!" Lithuania just blushed more.

As is usually the case with conversations regarding a nation's sex life, the gossip spread like the plague throughout the non-EU nations. It was soon revealed that no one had slept with America, not even Japan who had been, several people thought, a shoe in.

As is also the case with such conversations, the nations are careful to make sure no word of it reached America's ears, and they completely and totally forget to ask Canada anyway. Which is probably for the best, because anything which reaches Matthew's ears will be heard by Alfred. That is simply the way it had always been.

While the good nations of the world are gossipping with more enthusiasm than a housewife who hadn't been ale to look over her fence in three weeks, Matthew is fast asleep, and Alfred is, surprisingly enough, awake. The more southern nation was not and never has been the type to ponder deep philosophical questions, such as the meaning of life and how the hell he has managed to get so lucky. He is lucky, yes, but it had always, on some level, been he and Matt. A revolution and a war hadn't managed to change that.

So, instead of thinking deep thoughts on the nature of his relationship, Alfred F. Jones is thinking about how his boyfriend is really hot, and whether the benefits of waking him outweigh the disadvantages.

Fortunately, the option is taken away from him when the other blond opened one eye. "Al," Matthew sounds sleepy, understandable as it is three in the morning, "'s somthin' wrong?" Seeing that Matthew is precariously teetering on the edge of sleep again Alfred just chuckles, before laying back down, arms wrapped around his boyfriend's waist.

"Nah," he says easily, "go back to sleep." Matt's only response is to turn around so his back was against Alfred's chest. Alfred grins, the urge to sleep taking over again. Ever since they were kids the two had slept like this, or at least in some other, similarly tangled together way. Alfred mentioned it in passing once and Matt had only shrugged and with a grin said, "geography".


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. I should probably say that as much as I enjoy dark!Alfred, I do believe that he's genuinely a nice guy, however I also think that certain points in history require certain traits to take a back seat.

_annie_: I'm glad, hopefully it stands to memory.

xXxXx

Alfred may not be an old nation or country, but his lands, and therefore that part of him, are ancient. He only remembers it vaguely, mostly the feeling comes to him in dreams which flee in the face of morning. He can almost remember the feeling of being intertwined with his neighbours, some of whom are dead and gone, others of whom are just gone.

In those not quite memories, there isn't really anything. It isn't exactly a sensation like being touched, it just is, but it's enough to reaffirm what he has known longer than he has been conscious, he and Matthew belong to one another.

In 1763 when two blond boys meet for the first time, in person at least, it does not go as Arthur expects. France's colony clings to France, begging him to stay, "s'il vous plait Francois, I'll be good I promise, please," while a suspiciously bright eyed France is forced to push him away as he glares more hatefully than ever at Arthur. Arthur smirks in return, and once Francis leaves, his colony just sort of deflates, his tiny body curling in on itself.

This is where the scene deviates from expectation. Arthur is prepared to go over, probably be hit and kicked by a toddler in a tantrum, and take him home. Instead, his own colony, who while very open and emotive is not known for his thoughtfulness, rushes forward, wrapping his own tiny arms around the newcomer. The little French boy does not push him away, simply sniffles and hugs back. After a stunned moment Arthur is able to get his bearings. Silently, he stoops and picks the two up, Alfred giggling, though the other blond, while he doesn't hit, is completely tense in Arthur's arms.

To Arthur and other outsiders, the scene is nothing more than two adorable children comforting one another, to Matthew and Alfred, it is so much more. From that moment on, the two are inseparable. Brash, outgoing Alfred, constantly moving but always willing to wait for his calmer, more standoffish counterpart.

The two grow and bloom together, sharing beds and food and just about anything which can be shared. It isn't perfect, of course, like any small children they fight, and they fight more bitterly because their closeness makes them that much more susceptible to the other. The worst fight, by far, is shortly before Alfred leaves, and it almost breaks the two apart.

Alfred and Arthur had spent the past week screaming at one another, the kitchen and dining room were dented and scratched with the remains of plates and cups and bowl which had been lobbed at one another by the two nations. The house is only quiet if one was gone, and Matthew sort of thinks he's going to go insane. The constant insults and quips are bad, but if either catch sight of him they pounce like wolves on a deer, which is sadly the case right now.

"Matthew!" The Canadian cringes as he hears Arthur call for him. He'd been on his way out, ready to sleep outside just to avoid his brothers, but the arguing nations had seen him as he tiptoed past the living room. Giving the door a longing gaze he sighs and enters the current war zone.

It is a mess, cushions are torn, portraits are slashed and vases are smashed on the ground. Matthew stares in mute horror at the disarray until his attention is drawn to the other two in the room.

They are both dishevelled, hair falling in front of their faces, eyes burning with hate and who knows what else. Unable to take the silence, Matthew resolves himself to trying to talk the other two down, 'you needed something, Sir?"

Arthur's eyebrows twitch slightly at the title, but he responds anyway, "your brother," he spits out, "seems to have somehow come to believe that should he leave, you would come with him. Care to explain why he would think that?" the Englishman sounds calm, but Matthew knows enough to hear the threat which hovers in the air.

Alfred, perhaps out of kindness or perhaps just because is Alfred, doesn't give Matthew a chance to respond, "because, you tyrant," is Alfred's frosty reply, "why would he want to stay with you, you don't even like him." Matthew winces a bit at that, and Arthur looks so far beyond livid that the Canadian can't help but worry someone is going to die tonight.

"I assure you," says a deceptively collected Arthur, "I like the boy just fine."

Alfred sneers at that, and opens his mouth but Matthew beats him to it, "I know!" He cries, drawing their attention, "I know exactly how you both feel regarding me," he's picking his words carefully, trying to be neutral, "but, but it is terribly late, can't, can't we discuss this later, over breakfast maybe?" Arthur's gaze is sharp, but he finally nods and exits the room.

Matthew almost sighs in relief, except for the fact that the minute they hear Arthur's door close Alfred has him pinned to the wall, furious. "Why do you keep doing that?" He hisses, blue eyes flashing with something which makes Matthew want to draw away or surge forward, he isn't sure. Either way, sensing the impending confrontation, he tries once again to head it off.

"I don't-" Alfred cuts him off with a painful squeeze of his wrists, pressing his nose against his brother's as he does so.

"Don't even try, Matthew, why the hell do you keep avoiding the question, I'm going to leave, and I'm going to become my own country, so why won't you just tell England you are too?" Alfred loses some of his aggression near the end, and that just makes this so much worse.

"Because I'm not Alfred." The southern nation freezes, his eyes wide, jaw set.

"What?" He asks, and it's not flat, like Arthur would be, but strangled and high, almost a whimper. "Matt, how can you, I mean – I, you..." he can't even speak, so Matthew tries his best to explain.

"I want to," he says, as sincerely as he's ever said anything in his life, "but...but they don't, Alfred, my people, they like England, so, I can't, I can't just-" Alfred cuts him off by bringing his unoccupied hand up to Matthew's throat.

"Why the fuck would you stay here," he's hissing again, the hand around his brother's throat slowly tightening, and Matthew almost laughs because he knows Alfred probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "Arthur doesn't care about you, and neither does England," he notes Matthew's lack of protest and smirks, "you're too French and you know it. He can't love you, he's barely capable of it, and besides," the hand is still tightening, and Matthew can't really breath anymore, "he loves me." Matthew, more out of obligation than any real conviction tries to protest, which seems to fuel Alfred on, "honestly, though. I'm the only person who's ever going to fight for you. Arthur only took you from France because he wanted to upset Francis, and even that didn't work." This is where Matthew struggles, because he doesn't want to hear all those nasty little thoughts which come to him at night, or when he's alone given voice by the person he thought he could trust most in this world.

Alfred doesn't have to do much to stop his brother, Matthew is pinned against the wall, hands above his head and the lack of air is making him sluggish, so he continues on, "it didn't work, because, you're just a few hectares of snow, after all." And there it is, it's worse than being chocked, or punched or hit, and Matthew's entire being tries to flinch away from the words. Alfred, who can flip through emotions with almost the same ease Arthur does, goes from harsh to calming in less than a second.

"But that's just them Matt," he's cooing now, noes and mouth against Matthew's cheek, "I love you, I really I do, I think you're beautiful and wonderful, so just come with me, okay?" His hands, in contrast to his voice, are still tightening, and Matthew can feel his larynx giving way and his wrist bones grinding together. Desperately, he tries to speak, and eventually gets a word out, even as his vision goes dark.

"No," it's quiet and raspy, but Alfred hears it and suddenly lets go of the other male, letting him drop to the floor. Alfred doesn't say anything more, just turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the front door behind him. Matthew is too far gone to sit up, and just allows himself to lose consciousness, Alfred's voice in his head telling him just how unwanted he has made himself.

Arthur comes down stairs in the morning and makes breakfast, and he finds both boys bedrooms empty, leaving a cold dread to climb up his spine. He stews in thoughts of ingrates and traitors until he goes into the sitting room, and sees his second oldest colony crumpled on the floor, neck swollen and bruised, his wrists looking fractured if not broken.

Arthur is gentle with the boy, who doesn't wake as Arthur takes him up to his room or tends to his wrists and throat as best he can, Matthew doesn't wake until the next morning, so he misses the fight between Arthur and Alfred, where for once he's the centre of attention, Arthur screaming about how Alfred could have killed him, and Alfred screaming right back that he'd never do such a thing. He sleeps through the row, and through Arthur coming in to check up on him.

Matthew even sleeps through Alfred sneaking up one last time. Alfred smooths a hand over his brother's brow, blue eyes bright and so sorry, before he leaves one last time. Matthew wakes up alone, and doesn't even need to be told the Alfred is gone, he feels it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it.

xXxXx

Arthur is running through the burning streets, desperately peering into any blond face he passes, hoping to find Matthew. He doesn't, and the blond man swears violently as he encounters a group of American soldiers. Luckily, they fail to notice him, and he continues on, trying to remember where Matthew's patrol had been.

He hadn't expected this, really. He knew Alfred wanted Matthew, wanted him with an almost malignant obsession, but he never thought Alfred would actually hurt Matthew. Of course, he should have expected it, Alfred had already proved himself at least somewhat unstable in regards to Matthew. As these thoughts danced around in his consciousness, Arthur fails to keep the more morbid images out of his head. All he can do is imagine Matthew, prostrated by his burning capital, pined beneath Alfred.

So wrapped up in these awful thoughts is he that he almost misses them. The alley they're in isn't on fire, thank the lord for small mercies, and they're completely alone. Matthew is laying on his back, face dry despite the fact that even in the dim light Arthur can see angry burns blistering up his neck onto his cheek. Alfred is on his knees, Matthew's head on his lap, eyes streaming as he mouths something Arthur can't hear over the snap and pop of the burning buildings around them.

Matthew can though. The minute the capital started burning Matthew knew, knew Alfred was with them, which was precisely why he had tried to get as far from the American troops as he could, even as burns crawled up his stomach and chest, making him retch in pain.

Eventually, he collapsed, thankfully close to the alley entrance, as it allowed for some shelter. Alfred found him anyway of course, they had always been able to find one another the quickest when they were trying to hide, it seemed.

For a moment, Alfred's face had been as stern as stone, eyes reflecting the fire around them, and Matthew had wanted to whimper in fear, because Alfred had always been stronger and now Matthew couldn't even run, let alone fight. He didn't whimper though, instead he tried to stand, because he would not sit there writhing on the ground while America stood over him. The minute he tried, however, his legs buckled and he pitched forward.

Right away Alfred was there, strong arms steadying him. For a moment, Matthew allows himself that one little impulse and he leans on America, though his chest screams in agony against the action. Quickly, it becomes too much though, because Matthew has always loved Alfred above any other of the nations and the idea of giving into him is so tempting, but Matthew knows better. Arthur is like water, he knows how to flood a nation or how to keep it afloat. Alfred, Matthew thinks wryly, is more like fire. He loves with intensity, but he can and will overwhelm anyone who gets too close.

This is why, with reserves of strength he doesn't even know he has, Matthew pushes away, landing on his side. He quickly scrambles away until his back hits a wall, and Matthew sighs, glad for the support. Alfred, who is just so childish, looks so apologetic and hurt it almost makes Matthew cry, but he can't cry, not for Alfred or Arthur or Francis, so he laughs.

It must catch Alfred off guard, because the hoarse pained laughter makes the other boy slump to the ground, eyes fixed on Matthew. The space between is much less than an arm's length, their knees are almost touching, so Alfred reaches forward, sliding his dirty hand to cup Matthew's unburnt cheek. Then, parliament catches fire and Matthew has to scream because good god it hurts.

The scream catches Alfred off guard, and he jumps back, eyes wide as Matthew convulses, falling forward, panting open mouthed against the dirt path as his whole body reacts to having his seat of government burned. For a moment, Alfred is a little entranced. Matthew looks almost orgasmic, writhing on the ground, hair reflecting the firelight around them, and that part of him which seems so unheroic is suddenly there, it's telling him he should just take what is his, make Matthew see. It is the same part which, that gloomy night fifty years ago, whispered that if Matthew wasn't to be his, he couldn't be anyone's as his hand squeezed the tender neck of the other nation.

Fifty years is not an inconsiderable amount of time for a young nation, so Alfred squashes those thoughts ruthlessly. Instead, he crawls back forward, gently turning Matthew over. He still isn't crying, but he is gasping so hard his gag reflex is reacting, and Alfred just soothes a hand through the dirty matted hair and whimpers into his neighbours forehead, "I'm sorry Mattie, forgive me please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry."

Matthew can't respond, because if he tries to talk he'll just scream, but he wants desperately to tell Alfred it's okay and he does forgive him. He can't though, and through the awful haze of pain he sees Arthur approach, face guarded.

"Leave and I won't gut you," the empire says firmly, bayonet fixed on Alfred. Alfred, ever rebellious almost tells Arthur to piss off, but he can see that he isn't joking. Arthur, for whatever reason, is not going to let Alfred have Matthew, so the younger blond stands slowly, easing Matthew's head onto the ground. At the other end of the alley he picks up his musket and without turning away from Arthur leaves, his eyes not straying from Matthew until he's out of sight.

Once the upstart is gone Arthur drops next to the boy, trying his hardest to soothe him. "Shh," he tells him, even as he picks up the shaking, gangly body, "where exactly does it hurt." With Alfred gone Matthew lets himself cry, burying his face in Arthur's neck, despite the fact that that really just hurts.

"Everywhere," he tells the other, and Arthur nods. London hadn't burned really all that long ago, only about two hundred years, and size be damned a burned capital was a burned capital. What he doesn't understand, is that when Matthew meant everywhere, he meant everywhere. Alfred always had made his head and heart hurt, after all.

xXxXx

Thanks to everyone who has favourited or put this story on alert, but special thanks to those who comment as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it.

xXxXx

Alfred grits his teeth and bears it was the White House goes up in flames. The structure isn't likely to be too damaged, but it hurts nonetheless. Mostly because Alfred is sure he saw Matthew in the group of soldiers who torched his capitol.

It confuses him, to be honest. He knows Matthew has every right to be angry with him, but Matthew had never been the vengeful sort, not even as children. As he sat on the small rise behind the House, silently his hand clutches at the sore skin on his chest and shoulder, above his heart.

Arthur finds him there, and Alfred smiles a bit, his previous confusion cleared. "You're lucky," Arthur tells him, "I would have burned it all."

Not even bothering to look up Alfred just snorts, "how European," he remarks drily.

Arthur ignores him, continuing on, "I do not know exactly what you preoccupation with your brother is America, but it is unhealthy." Alfred tenses, his eyes narrowing, but Arthur troops onward, determined to have his say. "All you have managed to do since you left is hurt Matthew," he informs his former charge, and Alfred bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from arguing.

It's true, that he and Matthew haven't been on the best of terms lately, and part of Alfred wants nothing more than to blame Arthur. He knows, however, that it is his own issues which drive them apart. He can't explain it to Arthur, but Alfred has loved Matthew since before Europe was involved, and he's just been trying to find a way to realize the relationship.

Granted, he hasn't gone about it the best way, but Alfred is willing to mature and grow with his circumstances if Matthew wants him to. Arthur must take his silence for rejection of what he is saying because he just sighs, "you are not that stupid boy," he says firmly, "go back to whatever you've been doing with France and leave your brother alone."

At that he's gone and Alfred, knowing he is alone lays down, wonder what Arthur meant. Alfred likes France well enough, but an ocean lays between them and their bonds aren't really all that deep. Mentally shrugging Alfred closes his eyes to let oblivion take him, knowing his own soldiers will come looking for him once this is sorted out.

He's so tired, as he lays on that hill, he almost doesn't recognize the familiar presence nearby. Luckily, he does, though he doesn't move a muscle. Matthew comes up, fairly close and Alfred half wonders if he's going to stab him. He doesn't, and Alfred has to fight back the grin when he hears Matthew whisper from a few feet away, "I do forgive you Al, please get better." Matthew leaves and Alfred allows himself to grin and wonder what Matthew meant by "getting better".

Alfred thinks he understands now, what Matthew meant by "get better", as he sits down heavily on his bed. The civil war is exhausting, not just physically but mentally. They'd called him from the fighting early on once they realized he wasn't stable enough to fight.

Usually, Alfred would have protested, but he was so relieved that day the president himself told him he would no longer be given the means to stab his fellow soldiers. That had been a relief, but being locked in his room for three years, unable to sleep or even really keep anything down while his people tore him almost literally in half was unbearable. He has dreams, of losing and the Confederates ceding and he would disappear, only to have someone else be the Union.

Those dreams left him sobbing and screaming and trying desperately to get out of his suddenly tiny cramped room, and it was after one such dream that the only even slightly enjoyable moment of his confinement occurred.

Sweat pouring down his face Alfred sits up, his entire body tense to the point of shaking. As he tries to calm down, Alfred can't help the groans of pain which came out, more fighting, somewhere in the west this time, and the groans turn to sobs as flashes of the dream come back. As he sobs, Alfred fails to breath and he starts hyperventilating. Panic, which before the civil war had been such a foreign concept, creeps up his spine, clouding his judgement.

He almost screeches when his bedroom door is opened. He doesn't get many visitors, except Lincoln and occasionally Welles. Grant had come to visit twice, once after Alfred was first taken off the field and again just after the battle of Antietam. Both times Alfred had been a wreck, but not nearly as much as he was now. Through the pain and fear and panic and so many other things Alfred can't tell who had entered.

For a moment he can't even recognize the cool fingers which start to wipe the sweat from his brow and out of his eyes. Once he does though, Alfred's entire body starts to slowly become less tense. Matthew looks better than the last time they met. His shoulder is out of it's sling and the burn marks have since left his face, and, Alfred thinks, squinting clouded eyes even as the tears continue, is no longer on his neck either.

Beyond that, there is something else. Matthew's presence would be described by some as forgettable, Alfred thinks they are insane. Matthew has the feel of a mountain almost not in that it is large or imposing, but in that it is steady and there and unwavering, if you're used to it, you may take it for granted but when you actually took the time to look, it was breath taking. Right now, Matthew looks so concerned, his bright indigo eyes peering up at his brother, mouth twisted into a soft frown. Alfred hates that frown, he hates anything which means Matthew isn't smiling. That hate has been directed at himself several times, and Alfred can feel it bubbling merrily away within him with all the other nasty emotions.

Matthew seems to realize this because his hands drift down a little so one is on each of Alfred's burning cheeks, and he gently brushes one thumb across one of his cheekbones, head tilted slightly. "Alfred," he whispers softly and the voice makes Alfred cry a little more, because he's just that pathetic now. Matthew starts at that, concern now drifting into the realm of distress, "Alfred," he says again, "why are you crying, why are you scared?" Matthew is good with emotions, Alfred thinks, for someone who has spent so much time with the fucking tight ass that is the British Empire.

That must be why, Alfred thinks, that when everyone else who checks in on him during one of his fits thinks he just must be feeling the effects of one of the numerous skirmishes, Matthew can see he is scared. "I," it comes out all wrong, frightened and small and breathless, "I had, a dream and I died and they took over and they were awful and God don't let that happen I don't want that I don't-" Matthew cuts him off gently, because Matthew is almost always gentle, and he is never unduly harsh.

"Alfred," the voice is soft again and filled with so much calm and reassurance it makes Alfred want to start crying again, "you won't die." This startles Alfred a little, mostly because he's been having this thought for the last two years now and Matthew is the first one to tell him it won't come true.

Despite himself, he peers suspiciously at the other nation, "how do you know?" He demands and it's angrier than he wanted, but not angry enough to scare Matthew who doesn't even blink. Matthew's lack of reaction just fuels Alfred, who hasn't had anyone to lash out at. "How do you know, what do you even care?" Matthew actually starts a little at this but he doesn't interrupt, seeing that Alfred needs this, "you can't help, you won't, you almost, you almost supported them, you don't know, you don't."

Matthew looks at him silently for a moment before standing. Alfred wants to beg him not to go, that he didn't mean it, but Matthew just sits next to him on the bed. He looks at Alfred for a moment before gently pulling him into a hug. Matthew understands that 'you' had not meant him, it had been for everyone.

Now, years later, in the fine spring of 1876, with a new state in the union and everything going more or less very well, Alfred is knee high in mud and soaking wet. Matthew is gaping at him, his jaw open and eyes wide, hands clutching at his doorway in an almost painful looking fashion.

"Alfred?" The question is incredulous, and it makes the older country laugh a little.

"I hope you don't mind my dropping by unannounced," Alfred is grinning so widely Matthew's face hurts a little in sympathy, "I was in the neighbourhood." At this Matthew's astonishment vanishes, and he lunges forward for a hug, despite the fact his brother is filthy and wet.

"What are you doing here?" The question is valid, but for some reason it makes Alfred's smile dim, his eyes suddenly a little sad. Immediately, Matthew starts to apologize, that little irrational part of himself worried Alfred will be offended and leave, "I'm sorry Alfred, I shouldn't act like I do not want you here, really I'm sor-"

Alfred cuts him off with a laugh and a finger pressed against his lips, "don't apologize Matt," he says gently, not removing his finger, "that should be my job." Matthew, who'd been going a little cross eyed trying to see Alfred's finger, furrows his brow at that and looks up. Seeing the confusion on his face, Alfred laughs again, removing his finger, "I'll explain everything, but could I impose upon you to let me in?" Matthew flushes at this and quickly yanks Alfred inside, not caring about muddy boots on his floor.

Matthew, so much like Arthur in some respects, starts to fuss, asking his brother where his suitcase is and how he got here, all the while chastising him for trekking through the rain. Alfred just lets him, smiling softly, letting Matthew tug off his wet garments only to shove dryer ones at him. The chastisements lasted past the act of getting Alfred dry and all the way into Matthew setting a cup of cocoa down onto the table he sat Alfred at.

"Are you done?" Alfred asks, a teasing note in his voice as he wraps his hands around the warm mug. Matthew stumbles a bit at that, before flushing again.

"Sorry Al," he mutters and ducks his head. Alfred takes a sip of his beverage and hums in appreciation, setting his cup back down.

"Didn't I say not to apologize," Matthew sends him a semi-pained glare at that, and Alfred continues on, "besides, I should be apologizing. I've been so busy lately, we both have but that's not an excuse to miss out on your birthday!" Matthew just gives Alfred a blank look at that, violet eyes a little confused.

He opens his mouth to say something before snapping it shut again, realization dawning, "oh Alfred," he breaths, looking flattered, "you didn't have to come all the way out here just for tha-" Alfred cuts him off again with a rather dark look.

"I did actually," the blond says firmly, blue eyes locked with Matthew's, "because I have something for you." Matthew frowns a little at this.

"I," he flushes a little, "I don't have anything for you..." Matthew trails off, looking down so he misses Alfred's shrug.

"That's fine Mattie," the older blond says, chugging down his drink and leaping up, "you will in a moment!" He catches Matthew off guard by practically swooping upon him, hoisting him up to his feet. Matthew, stunned by the sudden movements almost falls over but catches his balance, violet eyes wide. "Matthew," Alfred says, hands on Matthew's shoulders eyes locked, "I love you."

The declaration hangs between them, heavy and loud in the utter silence of the rural home. Matthew is trembling in Alfred's grip and Alfred is quickly becoming nervous as Matthew remains there, looking down in complete silence.

"How do you know?" Matthew looks up at him, his eyes suspiciously bright, though his voice is steady. Alfred blinks at the question, trying to think of a way to explain the strange sensation he associates with love, with Matthew. The other blond looks increasingly distressed as he demands, louder but not as steady, "how do you know you love me? Hmm, how?" He jerks out of Alfred's grasp but doesn't go anywhere, just slides back into his chair, "how could I possibly know?" He whispers, and Alfred slides down to kneel next to him, licking dry lips.

"Matthew, I, I don't know about you but for me..." he dies off, huffing slightly trying to describe it adequately, "you make me warm and cold and you make me happier and sadder than anyone else and even when I'm mad at you, enraged because of you I want you nearby." He coughs lightly and continues, "that's how I know." Matthew is still eyeing him uneasily so Alfred stands, "you don't have to say it back, if you don't mean it."

Alfred leaves the kitchen, fully planning to go outside and back down the muddy rural road until he finds the inn he knows he passed, but Matthew catches him just as he reaches the front door. The other blond latches onto his back, clutching his shirt and leaning his head against the others warm, broad back, "I do," he croaks, "you're all I ever wanted Alfred, I thought you knew." Alfred did know, but he also knows wanting something is not the same as loving it. They stay there for a moment before Alfred turns, wrapping his arm around the other and kissing him soundly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places. Specifically in this chapter, THERE IS SEX. If you don't wish to read it, send a PM and I can give you the low down of what happens (though not much really, it's mostly porn).

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. Please leave a review, it feeds my ego, I mean, makes me happy.

xXxXx

1896 comes, and Matthew, Alfred notes, seems to be having a crisis. "How are you and I supposed to separate America and Alfred and Canada and Matthew," Matthew's eyes are wide, and he sounds a little hysteric. The issue has been brought up before, but Alfred has tried to avoid thinking about it for years.

"I don't know, but we have to make it work," Alfred means it, they have to make it work. He knows this is unprecedented, neither of them have slept with anyone else, despite Matthew having various trade agreements.

They have both seen the European nations, they fight and hate and for the most part their idea of love is so fickle Alfred sometimes wonders how anyone can live like that. To France and England, at least, what they're doing would no doubt be called foolish, monogamy is not an option in Europe, but here it's different. Alfred knows, he _knows_ with every fibre of his being, every blade of grass, every cell, that he and Matthew belong with one another.

"I don't know Mattie, but we'll do it, I promise." Matthew just looks at him for a moment, and Alfred, seeing the look in his eyes, pushes away from the table their at. He kneels down next to Matthew, eyes locked, one hand cupping the others face the other gently grasping his wrist. "I promise Matthew Williams, I do," Matthew leans into his palm, nuzzling it lightly.

"Okay," he breaths, and then grins, "okay." Alfred laughs in delight at the trust in his lovers eyes before pressing their mouths together. Matthew's mouth is soft, but not pliant under his. Alfred's tongue flicks out, brushing softly against his lovers bottom lip. After a moment, Matthew lets him in, sighing a little, and Alfred's lips turn up, tickled by the slight breath. Matthew's lips quirk up as well, an emphatic response, and Alfred, unable to respond further with his mouth, lets his hands tangle in Matthew's hair.

Moving his hand off Matthew's wrist, however, throws off his balance, and Alfred pitches forward into Matthew. The other blond catches him, pulling away from the kiss, his face flushed. "I think we need a bed," Matthew breaths, and a trill goes up Alfred's spine in response.

Nodding, Alfred stands up, tugging a willing Matthew after him as they make their way quickly to the closest bedroom. It isn't very big, but it's cozy and comfortable and for Alfred reflects Matthew perfectly. The elder of the two countries sits down on the bed, pulling the other on top of him. Matthew allows this, though he lands with a slight 'oof'. Alfred grins broadly at this, and Matthew manages to make the eyebrow he raises look dry, which just elicits a larger grin.

Matthew screws up his nose slightly, pushing off Alfred until he's sitting up, straddling his hips. "How did that not bother you?" he demands, pouting slightly. Alfred grins again, grins more and Matthew has a sudden flash of what exactly it is Alfred's mouth could be doing. The thought makes him blush, but Alfred doesn't remark on it, instead opting to answer his earlier question.

"You're lighter than air, darlin'," he says, drawling lazily, playing up his good old southern charm. Matthew shivers in response, biting his lip as Alfred's hands trail slowly up and down his sides.

"'m not," he murmurs softly, eyes drifting shut as the petting continues. Alfred doesn't respond right away, instead staying his hands on Matthew's hips.

"Well, no," he agrees, "but you really aren't all that heavy." It sounds like a statement, but it isn't. Alfred wants to know why his brother, his lover, is so much lighter than he should be. Matthew squirms a little, brushing against Alfred's half hard cock and making his breath hitch, Matthew shoots him an apologetic look before trying to explain.

"New immigrants," he says, eyes fixed on Alfred's chest, "the prairies." Alfred nods, a silent request to explain further. "They're just having some troubles, with the winters and the soil, they're also having trouble with housing and," he pauses, still looking at Alfred's chest, "it's hard." Alfred understands, new immigrants cause all sorts of problems, because they bring new ideas, new potential for both the good and the bad, but they can bring such joy too. Not being able to help them hurts.

"They'll be fine Matt," he assures him quietly, "now, is my chest really that interesting?" Matthew is silent, but from under his lashes he flashes Alfred a look. That's all the warning Alfred gets before Matthew leans down and licks where he knows Alfred's nipple is. Alfred swears at this, automatically bringing his hand up to the back of Matthew's head.

Understanding completely, Matthew laps at the covered nipple again, his other hand coming up to gently flick the other. Alfred groans a little, and than louder, when Matthew sucks on one, ignoring the shirt, pairing it with a firm, but not painful, twist with his hand. Matthew pulls away at that, smirking at Alfred. "Oh it really is," he tells him, and Alfred chuckles weakly at that.

"Tease," he says, and Matthew once again arches an eyebrow, before deliberately grinding down on Alfred's erection. Alfred growls at that, quickly flipping them over. Matthew doesn't even blink, just arches his back so he's flush with Alfred, chest to chest.

"Me?" He asks coyly, and Alfred presses their mouths together again to shut him up.

"Yes you," he says, rubbing his nose against Matthew's fondly before kissing the tip, "but I don't mind." Matthew giggles at him, turning his head slightly as Alfred trails kisses from his nose to the corners of his mouth, down his jaw and then to his neck. Alfred licks and nips lightly at the place just behind Matthew's ear, and then again at the juncture between neck and shoulder. Matthew whines a bit at this, a soft happy sound. Alfred, who hasn't stopped smiling, keeps on doing so, right up until one of Matthew's hands dips down to stroke his inner thigh.

"Christ!" Alfred yelps a little as the hand comes just close enough to his crotch to make an impact. Matthew gives him a lazy grin at the reaction, and Alfred glares a little. "That is exactly what I mean," he says firmly.

Matthew has the good taste to look a little abashed, before he sits up again, one hand coming up to start unbuttoning Alfred's shirt, nimble fingers making quick work of them. The other hand comes down fully onto the crotch of Alfred's pants, palming him slowly, making the other moan and push down into his hand.

"I apologize," Matthew says seriously, continuing to stroke Alfred through his trousers. He smirks a little, stopping his hand and bringing both up to push off Alfred's shirt, pushing on Alfred's shoulders until he's on his back. "Let me make it up to you," he requests earnestly. Alfred nods breathlessly, mind working to figure out what Matthew has planned.

It doesn't take long to figure out. Matthew trails his hands down Alfred's chest until he comes to the waist of Alfred's trousers. Quickly he pulls them down, taking Alfred's undergarment with them until his mouth is exactly level with the head of Alfred's cock. He looks at Alfred for a moment, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip and his eyes wide in the most erotic display of faux innocence Alfred has ever seen. Matthew, seeing his lovers eyes widen, rests his mouth softly on the tip of the organ in front of him, flicking his tongue out to taste Alfred's slit.

Alfred swears like a cowboy at that, head falling back and hips canting up. "Ugh," he says, and Matthew understands, slowly sliding down until he reaches the base. Alfred is none too secretly fond of the fact Matthew appears to have no gag reflex, it makes things like this very enjoyable. Seeing his lovers far away look, Matthew swallows to regain his full attention.

Alfred gasps at this, feeling the already tight, wet heat around him tighten more. Matthew pulls off a little, sliding up and down Alfred's full length. Matthew swallows and hollows his cheeks, making sure never to do too much of either, until Alfred's hands, which had been fisted into the slightly scratchy bedding, suddenly comes up to grasp at Matthew's hair.

Matthew yelps around Alfred's cock as he feels a gentle tug at that damn curl, and Alfred swears violently in response, hips coming up to thrust sharply into the back of Matthew's throat. Matthew, naturally, doesn't flinch, just lets Alfred give a few thrusts into his mouth before he pulls off, smiling softly at Alfred's disappointed groan.

"I could keep going," he offers, voice a little raspy from the abuse, "but I was actually thinking of putting this," he emphasizes 'this', with a tug of Alfred's erection, "somewhere else." Alfred just stares mutely at him as his right hand reaches over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a small tube of oil.

Matthew watches, amused, and before Alfred can open it tugs it from his hand, setting it next to them on the bed. Instead, he puts three fingers to Alfred's mouth, "suck please," he requests softly, and Alfred does, flicking his tongue across the tips and rubbing it between them, coating them as well as possible. "Thank you," Matthew says kissing Alfred's navel before sitting up. Alfred, who'd been expecting something a little different, gapes when Matthew raises himself up, letting one of his hands creep around his back until it's at his anus.

Alfred watches avidly as one finger pushes slowly in, his eyes darting from Matthew face to his disappearing finger. Not long after the first pushes in, the second follows and Matthew just sighs a little, a sound Alfred recognizes, meaning Matthew's just crooked his fingers. Absently, Alfred's hands come to Matthew's hips, coaxing them forward a little more. Matthew moans at the slight change of angle, and Alfred smirks.

The two fingers work for a while, until Matthew pauses, pulling them out and adding the third. He winces a bit at that, and Alfred strokes his hip joints, making soft soothing noises. After a moment Matthew moves again, grinding down while spreading his fingers. He continues for a little while, until he brushes the magic little spot which makes him gasp.

With a willpower Alfred not only admires but appreciates, Matthew pulls his fingers out. Alfred quickly grabs the oil, uncorking it and pouring some in his hand. He quickly laves his erection in it, groaning at the contact he's been craving. Matthew watches him for a moment before stopping his hand. As Matthew positions himself, Alfred wipes off his hand on the bedding, returning the other to Matthew's hip.

Matthew takes a deep breath before pushing his hips down. Alfred's hands, now both on Matthew's hips, grip him firmly at the warm, soft heat which encases his cock. Matthew is still, his entire body trembling slightly, a flush going from the tips of his ears to chest. He's panting a little, and Alfred resists the urge to just push up.

"Oh lord Matthew," he breaths, "you're okay doll." Matthew nods, his eyes a little wet.

"Yeah," he agrees, and to prove it he lifts his hips a little before bringing them back down. From there on out they settle on a rhythm. It's slow at first, until Matthew's comfortable enough for Alfred to start thrusting up. It doesn't take long for Matthew to bring his chest down, deepening the angle, causing them both to groan.

Alfred, a little frustrated with the fact he hasn't managed to elicit the usual reaction out of Matthew, shifts a little. Right away Matthew moans, rocking back harder onto Alfred's cock.

"Alfred," the blond pants, and immediately the other brings one hand off Matthew's hip to wrap it around the northern country's weeping erection. The reaction is instantaneous, with Matthew crying out in both French and English, his ass muscles tightening even more.

"Good God!' Alfred moans, driving even harder into Matthew. The slighter man shudders, babbling in both his languages before he comes with a cry. Alfred groans at the continual tightening of Matthew's inner muscles.

He thrusts up, Matthew meeting him with tiny little cants, until he stops completely, chest flush with Alfred's, face tilted to the side. Sensing that Matthew is feeling a little overstimulated, Alfred gives one, two, three more deep thrusts before he feels himself come undone.

Alfred continues thrusting as his cock softens until he slips out. Matthew makes a little noise at that, but he doesn't move. Alfred shifts, so that both he and Matthew are on their sides, and presses his lips to Matthew's cheek.

"Love you," Matthew murmurs and Alfred presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Love you too doll," Alfred coos, letting sleep overtake him. He'll make this work.

xXxXx

Again, please drop a review, I love hearing from you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. You know, I don't like this part, I don't know why I didn't just edit it out...anyway, I would be very happy if you could leave a review if you take the time to read, even just a 'hey great update!' makes me smile.

xXxXx

Usually, Arthur would never admit to being glad to see America, rising super power that he is, but this is different. After three years of endless, brutal fighting, Arthur would be glad to see just about anyone if they came with the promise of troops and food and water and so much else. "Lieutenant Colonel Jones," the older blond says, managing to keep the grudging relief out of his voice, "we are glad to have you here, do you have your orders?"

America is, for once, all business, "yes sir, we're to set up more medical tents, give an update on rations and then discuss battle plans sir."

Arthur nods, and then dismisses the other officers in the room. Soon, it is only himself, France, Belgium and America, "We are glad to have you," the commonwealth says, "even if you're a bit late."

America doesn't give him the usual shit eating grin, but he does relax, "I didn't do it for you," he says, and Arthur blinks a little, "I didn't do it for any of you." The blue eyes look around the room, resting on the worn down France and the exhausted to the point of failing Belgium. He doesn't say anything else, instead exists the small mud room back out into the trenches.

Alfred makes his way through the muddy maze, eyeing the people around him until he finds what he's looking for. The man is grim looking, though a bit cleaner than most. His shoulder has two broad olive stripes on it, and Alfred pauses for a moment, trying to remember what rank that would make him.

The point is moot, as the man, who'd been concentrating on the ground as he smoked, must feel his eyes on him. Sharp, though tired, brown eyes lock with his and dark eyebrows rise sharply in shock. The man, a captain, Alfred remembers suddenly, studies him from top to bottom, taking in his rank and nationality. Finally, he finishes his cigarette and crushes the useless butt into the wet mud. He approaches Alfred a little cautiously, ducking around a harried looking NCO.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he says, sticking out his hand, "I'm Captain Doore." Alfred shakes the hand firmly, giving the man a quick grin. The Captain smiles back, much more tired but nonetheless welcoming, "you looked as if you needed something, sir." Alfred drops the man's hand, brushing back his hair in a nervous gesture, smiling a little more tightly.

"Lieutenant Colonel Jones. I'm actually looking for someone, Captain, he's stationed here, I believe." The Captain frowns a little at that, scratching his neck.

"You're our first group of Americans," he says, a strange accent coming through, "so I don't know how much help I can be, sir." Alfred just grins again.

"Don't bother with the sir Captain, speak freely," the brown haired man nods at this, a bemused grin on his face, "and the man I'm looking for is actually a Canadian."

Doore relaxes a bit at that, "well, I might be more help then," he concedes, "so who're you looking for."

"Williams," Alfred says firmly, "A Matthew Williams I don't-"

Doore cuts him off, face suddenly miserable, "sir," he says sadly, and Alfred's instantly on edge, "I don't think you want to see him sir." Alfred feels panic claw at his spine at this, imagining all the awful things which could have happened to the violet eyed nation. He squashes it down however, squaring his shoulders.

"I really do captain," he says firmly, "I really do."

The trench they were at was a busy one, in a strategically vital position, and therefore had it's own base hospital. On the outside, it was a miserable looking tent hut hybrid, relatively safe behind the artillery and the entirety of the trench. Inside, was a different story.

Alfred knows, intellectually, that the canvas and plywood walls should not block the sound this well, but they do. The minute you step into the building, all the sounds of warfare are cut off, and Alfred almost wants to exit again. The silence in the hospital isn't absolute, there are men groaning in pain, whimpering, crying and even a few occasional screams, but there isn't much other than that. The nurses and doctors don't yell or bustle, just move efficiently from one bed to the other.

The beds line the walls, as well as an extra column down the centre, and near the end are a few beds which have curtains drawn around them. The nurses don't stop there, though they occasionally stick their heads behind, only to pop back out without a word. Even as the two men head towards the back, one nurse sticks her head behind those awful dirty white curtains, only to come out again, grab a sheet and head back behind the curtain.

"He's over here," Doore says quietly. Matthew's bed is at the end of the left most row, just before the curtain which blocks off the people who can't be saved. At first, he looks like he's sleeping, until one notes the pinkish tinge to the bandages all around his chest and torso, as well as the dried blood at the corners of his mouth. Alfred feels physically sick at seeing his beautiful lover like this, paler than death and completely unresponsive.

"Oh Mattie," Alfred breaths, completely forgetting about their audience, Doore gives him a look, but Alfred ignores him, opting to smooth that curl Matthew hates so much out of his face.

"You two are obviously close," the captain says, dark eyes fixed not on Alfred but on Matthew's chest, watching the shallow rise and fall, "are you cousins or brothers or something?"

Alfred pauses, because he honestly does not see Matthew as a brother, and family is rather subjective when you're a nation anyway. "Or something," he admits finally, "it's -"

"Complicated?" Doore's voice is sardonic, his right eyebrow having disappeared into dirty hair, "Williams has said that exact thing before."

This time Alfred's eyebrow rises, "about who?"

Doore gives him a blank look, "Field Marshal Kirkland of course," he says, as if it's obvious. Well, actually, it should be obvious, Alfred realizes, giving Doore a sheepish grin.

"Of course, he and I don't exactly see eye to eye." Doore gives him a look, but says nothing. They find two chairs after that, neither saying much as they sit themselves next to Matthew's prone form. After an hour or two Alfred gets up, saying he has some orders he should probably follow, Doore laughs softly and says he'll help. Alfred, with the help of the Canadian captain is able to track everyone he needs to down, and before long he finds himself in one of the trenches nearer the front.

Doore leads him through the trench, waving and nodding to people as he passes. Eventually, they reach a small dugout. The dugout is fairly shallow, being on the front lines, and Alfred has to duck to get past the doorway.

Inside there are about ten men, all huddled around a small table. There are two lanterns, in opposing corners, which shed just enough light for the men to enjoy what looks like a poker game. "Gentlemen!" Doore booms as he enters, face alight with a large grin, "it is my honour to introduce Lt. Col. Jones, of Cpt. Williams' confusing family." The men, all tired and underfed looking greet him enthusiastically.

"'lo sir," says one slightly out of place man, his British accent thick despite his Canadian uniform, "care to be dealt in?" Both Alfred and Doore nod and before they know it the men have shifted so there is room on the chair and at the table.

They aren't betting anything, though there is a tin of cookies which one man, boy actually, offers shyly. "They're from my little sister!" he exclaims excitedly, grin large and toothy, "mother says she made them almost all by herself." Alfred feels a little lump form at this, looking at the face of a boy who is seeing things he really shouldn't.

"I'd love one," he says. The boy hands him one, watching him, waiting for his verdict. The cookie is hard, having been shipped over, and a little less sweet than most would want, but Alfred smiles broadly nonetheless, "these are awesome!" He enthuses, and the boy laughs in delight.

"I'll be sure to add that into my letter," he says, "Annie will be so happy at all the praise." Alfred just winks, finishing off the sweet.

"Sir," one man, older than the boy, probably in his late twenties is looking at him with focused grey eyes, "you 'ave been to see Ma- Cpt. Williams, yes?" His accent is distinctly French, and Alfred notices how the man stops himself from calling Matthew by his first name.

"Yes," Alfred nods, "it was one of the first things I did."

Another man, a red head, looks interested, "what did you do first?" He doesn't use the usual sir, and Alfred just shrugs it off.

"I had to speak with F.M Kirkland," he says, barely paying attention to his cards, it's an awful hand, he notes.

The red head nods, accepting this as a valid excuse, "I don't really understand the man," he says, almost conversationally, "one minute he's speaking to the Cpt. as if he's a bit of a nuisance, next he's dragging men out into no man's land to search for someone who should be nothing more than chunks." He sees the look on Alfred's face, confused, and looks at Doore, "Monroe!" he exclaims, "you didn't tell him how the beloved Cpt. ended up in there?"

Doore shakes his head, "I thought it was obvious," he said with a shrug. Several other men snort at this, and the grey eyed Frenchman rolls his eyes.

"Non," he says sarcastically, "it is not obvious at all," he looks at Alfred, putting his cards face down and folds his hands. "A week ago Cpt. Williams was escorting a medical tank to a nearby town we 'ad recently overtaken," he pauses scratching his nose, "the tank 'it a mine, Williams was not in it, grace a dieu, but the force of the explosion and the amount of metal which was thrown at 'im? 'E 'as no right to be alive, though I am not complaining."

"Surviving that wasn't the miracle," the red head says, eyebrows drawn together in contemplation s he studies his cards, "it was the fact we didn't know they got hit." Alfred blinks in surprise, not understanding.

The boy with the cookies explains, "the village was a ways a way, a good week out, they were scheduled to be gone a week." The implications make Alfred eyes grow wide in horror, the thought of Mattie, his Mattie, out in the mud and rain riddled with shrapnel for two weeks makes that dark part of him rise up, baying for blood.

The boy sees the look on his face and rushes to placate him, "it's okay!" He says, waving his hands, revealing his cards to several interested men, some of whom swear, "F.M. Kirkland seemed to know something was wrong after just three days, he went out with five men right away to find them. The nurses we sent were dead, and the supplies were destroyed. So was the escort, but somehow, somehow Matthew survived."

Alfred looks at him, at the men around the table, and sees how miserable the way they've been living for the last few years. He hears them talk about Matthew with such fondness, Doore tells of the day he enlisted, along with Matthew, and how everyone had taken one look at the soft spoken blond boy who was more pretty than anything else, and slated him for dead. Doore told of how Matthew had turned out to be more prepared than any of them for the horrors they faced, and most of all, Doore talked of how their invisible little captain had saved their lives more than once.

Alfred listens learning all their names and histories. The red head is Donald Green from Alberta, the boy is Daniel 'Danny' Pearson, the Quebecois is Pierre LaBlanc. There is also a Robert Killam, Peter Wyatt and so many other. Alfred swaps stories with them all until late at night when he's called away to meet with the higher ups. The next day he's sent away, he knew he would be, but he's forced to leave Matthew with a note. He doesn't give it to any of the nations, he gives it to Doore, telling him "it's important, Cpt. Doore."

The man just looks at him and smiles, "I understand Lt. Col. Jones, he'll get it." Alfred leaves, going to England to fly from an airbase there, and when the war finally ends Alfred F. Jones meets the most unexpected person while in Paris, in 1919 during the most inclusive peace talks the world has ever seen.

Donald Green tracks him down one night, a night when he's trying to track down Matthew because has to talk to him dammit, and silently hands him a small envelope. In the envelop is the list of Canadian soldiers he spent the night with, six names are crossed off, including Danny Pearson and Monroe Doore. Green is gone before Alfred can ask him why he's being given this, and he's so shocked he almost doesn't notice the writing on the bottom.

_We thought you would like to know, sir._


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. This part, first little bit aside, I do like. I like when these two snuggle. They are snuggly.

xXxXx

The First World War ends in a conference which only sets the stage for another disaster, much to Alfred's frustration. He does not get to see Matthew, Arthur keeps them far apart, not actively, but just by keeping Matthew busy, and then the thirties hit and he's too sick to search out his lover.

They go through world war two without contact as well, and by the end Alfred is going mad. Mad enough to search all through London one evening when he's supposed to be meeting with everyone to see Germany and Prussia off, see them torn apart.

He finds Matthew huddled outside the hotel they are being housed in, absently puffing on a cigarette. "I'm sorry Mattie," is the first thing he says, wanting desperately to wrap his arms around his lover, but he refrains, humans are everywhere today, and they simply don't react well to things like that.

Matthew looks at him, and he gives Alfred a tiny little smile which makes the other blond's heart swell and constrict at the same time. "They all talked about how wonderful you were Alfred," he says, and Alfred is glad that they are able to talk about something twenty years gone with no preamble, just as they always had been able to do. Silently, Matthew offers Alfred one of his cigarettes. and the American accepts, using Matthew's to light his own.

"Did Cpt. Doore get the note to you?" He asks softly, and Matthew shakes his head.

"Well, sort of," he replies, not looking at his lover, "he gave it to Green, who got it to me." Alfred nods, because that's good enough, he thinks. Matthew speaks again, and he just sounds so sad that Alfred almost abandons all his pretences. "He had a wife, Abigail, I believe, and a son, Thomas," he looks at Alfred, bright eyes full of tears, "he was with me from the beginning, it's the closest I've had to a friend in years."

Part of Alfred feels bitter at that, feels as though he should be more than enough to cover for any lack of friends, but the rest of Alfred knows that isn't true. They stay silent for a moment, until Germany, Prussia, England, France and Russia leave the building, Germany and Prussia are ramrod straight, faces expressionless. Alfred knows he should be there to see them off, but the desire to do so is non existent.

"Did I do the right thing?" He asks, and Matthew understands what no one else would have, he isn't talking about Germany.

"I don't know Alfred," he admits, "it had all gone on long enough, I don't know if there was another way." Alfred nods, before stamping out his half finished cigarette and heading back toward the hotel. Matthew follows him immediately, and doesn't even seem to care the humans might see them. "Alfred," he says so softly the southern nation almost doesn't catch it. He places one hand on Alfred's arm, the other coming up to clutch at the back of his shirt. "Alfred," he says again, and though Alfred doesn't turn around he appreciates it.

"Mattie," he replies, tangling his right hand with Matthew's, leaving it on his arm, "I love you." This isn't the first time they've said it, but it means so much more now. The world is changed, they can feel it, feel the shifting as it rocks out from Europe into their part of the world. This time, there is no running away, no chance of hiding on their large continent. It's nice for a hundred year old being to know that amongst one of the biggest turning points they had ever seen, some things never change.

Matthew is silent, as if he too is trying to fully comprehend what that means now, "I love you too Alfred," he says finally, and Alfred has to turn around, because, he simply has to.

"I don't know what I'd do if you didn't," he admits quietly, wrapping his arms around Matthew in a crushing hug. Matthew hugs back, face buried in Alfred's neck.

"Don't ever worry about that," he says softly, "you needn't bother. Ever." Alfred almost glows at that, because nations, unlike humans, do not use the concept of forever lightly.

"Yeah," he replies, "you neither." It's a promise, they both know it, and Alfred can feel Matthew grin into his neck. "We must look strange, let's go to my room, kay?" Alfred advises, and Matthew pulls away, nodding.

"Japan will forgive you," Matthew tells him as Alfred pushes him gently onto the bed, "I know it." Alfred looks at him, partly thinking that is not what he wants to discuss right now of all times, though he knows better than to say it.

"I wouldn't," he admits, kissing the slighter blond's cheek, "I really wouldn't." Matthew looks at him for a moment, before giving him a tiny smile.

"I know," he says, "I know." Alfred knows he knows, that's why they work. Alfred knows his quirks and possessiveness and obliviousness and, he admits though only to himself, occasional childishness make most people tolerate him at best. Matthew's different though, because Matthew is not only patient, but he's known Alfred forever, literally, and these things don't bother him any more.

Alfred doesn't say these things though, because they are communicated silently by the touch of a hand, a kiss to a fluttering pulse, a soft exhalation of air, a slightly arched back. Matthew speaks back, arching his back too, bringing a hand to gently tug at Alfred's hair, laving Alfred's jaw in kisses and nips and swipes of his tongue.

Alfred sighs at the attention, letting his eyes close as he and Matthew explore each others lands. Their bodies haven't changed much over the centuries, since independence and their apparently permanent end of growth. War has left scars, the last lingering trace of a burn mark on each others shoulders, raised little scars from shrapnel and bullets, a larger burn on the small of Matthew's back from the harbour explosion, the scar which almost ripped Alfred in half. They're all there, some new some old and fading fast, or not at all, but the rivers and valleys and mountains are the same.

Matthew tangles their palms together, thumb stroking the back of Alfred's hand. They don't go farther than the gentle strokes and kisses, neither is in the mood, but this closeness, these little displays of devotion and adoration and something impossible to describe, they are so much more than enough.

"I would forgive you," Alfred mutters later, half asleep, and Matthew who is still wide awake, frowns a little. He passes a hand through Alfred's short blond strands, twisting them slightly around his finger, careful not to tug or keep Alfred awake.

He doesn't respond right away, because the first wave of soldiers is returning home and Matthew's head is split into four parts. There are the ones who are happier than one could imagine, the ones who are sad and lost and desperate and grieving, the ones who are angry, bitter because of what has been lost; and finally himself.

He sorts through all these emotions, feels the twinges of grief from the wives who never received a telegram, and who kept hoping even after the letters stopped. He feels the joy of a small child seeing his father, mostly whole as far as he knows, for the first time, maybe ever. He feels strongly the anger of the returning soldiers, who wonder who they can go back to before. These make it hard for him to speak, to respond to outside stimuli, but he manages.

"In that case," he whispers to his sleeping lover, "I would never forgive myself."


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places. Sex in this part, if you don't wish to read it, I can give you the low down, just fire off a PM my way.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it.

xXxXx

Matthew is sick of wars, he doesn't understand why Alfred keeps making more. Matthew can't, just can't go with him this time. He went to Korea, and then he went to Suez and faced Arthur's and Francis' scorn and ire, but he can not go now.

Alfred accepts this with a nod, and then he is gone and Matthew feels his throat tighten but he doesn't cry. He won't. They don't see one another for ten years, and it makes Matthew miserable, because there isn't anything to distract him, no overbearing Arthur, no wars, no economic crisis. He's feeling particularly down on a rainy November night, half listening to the radio as it talks about a protest at some university in America.

Matthew's most preoccupied with the busy hum of American draft dodgers. Having Alfred's people come to live in his land is a strange feeling. It isn't like with other immigrants, there is no conflict between his love for all who wish to be a part of him and the hate his people have for the Other. No, Americans are mostly accepted, as brothers, and it fills Matthew with a mixture of joy and sadness. It is on this rainy night, half listening to the radio half to the hum of his people all across his lands when a knock comes on the door.

Matthew doesn't get a lot of visitors. He's not like the Europeans who are all surrounded by each other. All he's ever had was Alfred. Ivan was there for a while, but the Russian had had no interest in him whatsoever, so it did not really count in Matthew's mind. The other reason he doesn't get visitors is no one can remember where or who he is.

That is why Matthew flings open the door, mostly expecting it to be a human salesman but he's still excited. His excitement vanishes and is replaced with a mixture of confusion and jubilation. Alfred is on his front step, soaking wet with no luggage to be seen and Matthew has a flash back to that day in 1876 and he smiles.

"Alfred, what are you doing here?" He asks, gesturing for him to come inside. As the northern nation shuts the door, realization dawns on him and he turns swiftly, violet eyes wide. "You're draft dodging?" he exclaims, not sure whether he should be amused of horrified. Alfred gives him a grin and it's tired but still beautiful and Matthew wants to kiss him but he refrains, at least for now.

"No," Alfred says slowly, looking a little sheepish, "I'm not a draft dodger, I'm a conscientious objector." He says it with such pride that Matthew is able to somehow smother the laughter which wants to bubble out of his chest and mouth.

"Oh," he says instead, a little dumbly, and then turns on his heel, leaving a confused America in his foyer.

"Matthew?" The nation calls, watching the other go upstairs. Alfred takes a step to follow when Matthew's voice drifts down to him.

"Don't you move Alfred F. Jones," he calls, tone scolding, "I'm getting a towel and some clothes, so don't you dare drip on my carpet." Alfred grins at that, the tension in his broad shoulders loosening a bit at the fondness in Matthew's voice.

"Alright Matt," Alfred calls back. He stays standing where he is on the wood floor. To stave off the boredom Alfred looks around, taking in the pictures on the wall.

Most are, Alfred notes, not of Matthew. There is one fairly recent on of Arthur and Francis, from just before the Suez Crisis no doubt, as they aren't exactly happy with Matthew after that incident. There were several of his Prime Ministers, a few with him but most without, as well as several photos of Alfred himself. Alfred frowns at this, but only for a moment, when he finds a collection of photographs on the table in the foyer.

One is of him after just landing in London during world war 1. He's smiling, and Alfred remembers the shock and pure relief on Matthew's face when the American troops came to ground. The next two pictures are also from the wars. The first is Matthew seated with a number of men, some of whom Alfred recognizes. Half are wearing the old Canadian British uniforms of the first war while the rest are obviously English. Turning the photo around reveals the words "14th Battalion, 1st Canadian Division and the Yorkshire Regiment, Wed. April 21st, 1915". The next photo is a group of grim looking men at makeshift breakfast tables. Alfred doesn't even need to look to figure out the date, but Matthew's neat writing on the back of the old photo confirms what he already knew.

"June 6th, 1944, 3:30am," comes Matthew's voice softly from behind the still wet blond. Alfred gently puts the photo back down and turns to look at Matthew. He's holding a towel out and Alfred accepts it gratefully. Without a second though he tugs off his wet garments, depositing them on the floor. Matthew says nothing about it, just watches Alfred calmly, gentle eyes focused and evaluating. Once Alfred is dry Matthew takes a step forward, running curious fingers down his sides.

"They leave bruises." Matthew says, and it's almost but not quite a question. Indeed, Alfred does have bruising all up his ribs, though they are constantly faded and yellow, never fully healing or getting worse. He nods, a sudden tiredness taking over his senses.

"Yeah," he says and it's slow and thick, and Matthew stops his examination, instead taking Alfred's hand in his. Without a word Alfred is tugged upstairs, though only after Matthew picks up both the towel and the wet clothing. Matthew leads Alfred into his bedroom, and Alfred is strangely relieved to find it more or less the same as it was ten years ago. "Mattie, I missed you," he says as Matthew pushes him gently on the bed. Matthew pauses at that, head cocked a little to the side before he responds.

"I missed you too Al," he whispers, climbing into the bed until he's hovering over Alfred. "I missed you so much." Alfred sighs at that, eyes fluttering shut as Matthew presses a soft kiss to his lips.

The kiss is everything Alfred has been needing since this war started. It starts off dry and chaste until Alfred nudges forward a bit and Matthew deepens the kiss, tongue gently, always gently, pushing past Alfred's chapped lips to probe his mouth. Usually the two would be engaged in a mock battle of sorts, but for now Alfred is mostly passive, trusting Matthew to give him what he needs.

Matthew pulls away from the kiss, one hand ruffling Alfred's hair the other stroking his face carefully. Matthew doesn't say anything, but he gives Alfred a long look before pressing a kiss to his jaw. That kiss is followed by another, and then another and soon kisses are being trailed down Alfred's neck. Matthew pays special attention to that spot behind Alfred's ear, smiling a little as Alfred cocks his head to the side and sighs happily.

Matthew pays some more attention to that spot before heading back downward until he reaches Alfred's nipples. Delicately he takes the right one into his mouth, not biting, simply sucking gently and lapping at it. The other nipple is being lightly rolled between calloused fingers and it makes Alfred arch ever so slightly, giving a tiny, tiny moan.

The moan makes Matthew stop and switch nipples, now sucking on the left. He continues for an entirely too short period of time before pulling away. He's since shifted his weight so he's straddling Alfred and the blue eyed nation rolls his hips a little once his nipples are no longer receiving the attention he feels they deserve.

"Shh," Matthew soothes, rubbing his hands daintily up Alfred's chest and down his bruised sides, "I want you to relax Al," he tells him. Alfred nods, he understands, really, and leans his head back, closing his eyes. Matthew gives a satisfied hum

With that the northern nation lifts his weight off Alfred, shifting so he was between the lean naked thighs. Alfred is about to open his eyes when nothing happens only to have Matthew's mouth engulf his still mostly limp member.

Alfred's eyes snap open of their own accord after that, and Alfred takes a deep shuddering breath to try and calm down. Matthew doesn't move, just hold him like that, one hand stroking Alfred's thigh in a calming manner. Eventually Alfred manages to control himself, a blush high on his cheeks and chest straining a little. Slowly, Matthew begins lapping at the half hardened organ in his mouth, moving up and down languidly.

Despite the slow pace and the hands on his hips Alfred moans and writhes, legs twitching a little when Matthew brushes his balls. It's been ten years since Alfred has touched someone else this way, much less been touched. Ten years of tension and stress and a little bit of pain. He'd gone to Vietnam, done his duty, for his men, but that had really only expounded things.

So now, with Matthew's careful ministrations, Alfred is a mess. He tries desperately to buck into the slick heat engulfing him but Matthew's hands never waver, and soon, to soon, Alfred comes with broken whimper of Matthew's name. Matthew pulls off once Alfred's done, completely spent. He places a small kiss on the inside of Alfred's trembling thigh before looking up at Alfred.

"You okay?" He asks quietly and Alfred nods, eyes a little wet.

"Yeah, yeah I am," he breaths, looking at Matthew with big eyes. "Can you..." he trails off because he doesn't know what he wants to say. Matthew looks at him expectantly, gently kneading Alfred's stomach as he does.

"What is it Al?" He questions softly, voice barely a whisper, "what do you want."

"You!" The southern nation blurts, "I want you inside of me." And it's embarrassing, dammit, asking for sex, and a part of Alfred is already berating him, fear that Matthew will make him beg for it creeping up.

"Alright Al," Matthew says instead, and relief fills Alfred like a wave, "I can do that."

"But just for me," Alfred adds, and his voice doesn't waver, dammit, not even as Matthew quickly strips off his clothes.

Matthew, depositing his shirt on the floor, gives him a look, violet eyes full of love and a small smile, one Alfred only gets to see because no one else can be bothered to make it shine, the idiots, plays on his lips. "Of course only for you Alfred," Matthew says, pulling himself up to place a kiss on Alfred's lips. "It was always only you." With that he was between Alfred's legs again, one hand reaching under the mattress.

"I can't believe you keep the KY there," Alfred teases, grinning a little. Matthew smiles, white teeth shining.

"Well, not only here," he says before slicking up a finger. "This will be a little cold," he warns and slowly pushes the digit in. It is cold, and it makes Alfred tense but only for a second before he relaxes. Having already had a very good orgasm he's not all that tense, so Matthew manages the first finger without a problem.

He works the lone finger for a moment, small twists, in and out until he feels Alfred can take the second. He pulls out, slicking them both and returns to his preparations. Alfred is once again hard, writhing in pleasure as the fingers prod and poke that one little spot. Despite how not satisfying the two fingers are Alfred's hips still grind down on them and it doesn't take long for Alfred to be panting again.

After entirely too long, Alfred feels, Matthew slicks up his last finger and pushes three in. Usually the fit would cause a burn, but his previous orgasm and the almost mind numbing preparation already have left Alfred quite loose.

As the three fingers worked in and out rhythmically Alfred looses himself in the pace, allowing himself small moans and cries until finally he can not take it anymore. "Please Matt," he says, trying not to sound too wanton, "please I need you." Matthew just hushes him tenderly before pulling his finger completely from Alfred's body.

"Alright Al, just calm down," he says and Alfred struggles to regain his breath. Matthew lubes up, pausing at Alfred's entrance until he sees the other nation calm visibly. With that, the violet eyed nation pushes in. The heat is glorious, and Matthew struggles to keep any semblance of coherence. Alfred doesn't tense in pain at the intrusion, instead he's open and welcoming, hips angling just slightly upward to allow Matthew better access.

"Ma-att," Alfred stutters once the other is all the way in, "move please oh god please." Matthew complies with a fluid roll of his hips, smiling affectionately. He repeats the motion, a thrill going up and down his spine when he hits Alfred's prostate making him arch up and keen loudly. Matthew is the only one who gets to see Alfred like this, and the thought makes his heart warm and head fuzzy.

Soon, too soon, Matthew's thrusts become a little sporadic and he has to hold back a groan when Alfred's inner muscles start tightening. Below him Alfred his meeting every thrust, his brilliantly blue eyes squeezed shut, head thrashing. Nimbly Matthew reaches down and starts to skillfully work Alfred's cock. Immediately Alfred tenses, toes curling and back arching sharply.

"MattMattMatt," Alfred whimpers out before it dies of in a series of short staccato 'oh's. Matthew follows Alfred's example, giving another thrust, harder than the others, before stilling, arms trembling as he comes with nothing more than an almost inaudible whisper of Alfred's name. Staying like that for another moment Matthew gingerly pulls out, flopping down next to Alfred. They simply lay like that, Alfred's breaths slowly evening out until Matthew forced himself to stand, half staggering to the bathroom.

Alfred watches him go, blue eyes half lidded, and he heaves and unconscious sight of relief when Matthew returns, wash cloth in hand. Matthew swiftly but delicately wipes Alfred down, cleaning off cum and lube before he wipes himself down. He then looks at the cloth and Alfred before shrugging, tossing the cloth onto his pile of clothes.

"They need to be cleaned anyway," Matthew says crawling back next to Alfred. Alfred chuckles inaudibly at that, happy to snuggle. Matthew rests his head on Alfred's chest, Alfred's arm around his shoulder. "Sleep tight," he slurs tiredly, violet eyes dropping shut as sleep takes over. Alfred hums in response, his own eyes closing as the two lay entwined on Matthew's slightly sticky sheets. Outside the door Kumajirou uncovers his ears, sending the door a disgusted look. Waddling down the stairs the miniature polar bear shakes his furry white head.

"Ick," he says definitively, and then heads off to hunt house hippos.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. Three more pages to go, sorry this one's so short, I'll put another out tomorrow.

xXxXx

"Matt, Matt!" Alfred calls pushing past reporters and other people in a mad rush to reach the quickly retreating blond. "Fuck," he mutters concisely, sending several shocked humans farther than any person his size has a right to send someone, "fuck."

Matthew turns a corner and Alfred abandons sense and sprints after him, calling apologies behind him to the disgruntled Canadian citizens. "Matt stop," he says, panting slightly as he manages to wrap a hand around Matthew's arm and tug him into a small alley between two shops, "don't listen to him."

Matthew's eyes are wide, brows furrowed and he opens his mouth slowly before closing it again. Finally he speaks, voice tinged with a little confusion, "who shouldn't I listen to?" He asks, and Alfred stares at him, dumbfounded.

"Richard of course!" Alfred exclaims, and the look on Matthew's face melts away, only for him to roll his eyes.

"Why," he asks slowly, "in the world would I listen to your president in regards to my personal life." Alfred opens his mouth to answer and Matthew shushes him curtly, "for heaven's sake Al, I'm well over two hundred years older then the man, I do not need him to dictate who I cannot interact with and on what level. Why would you think that?" Alfred flushes a little, before sticking his tongue out childishly.

"Well you just ran off, and beside, we listen to people centuries our junior all the time."

Matthew smiles fondly at that before taking Alfred's arm and walking him back down the street. "Well first, I have a meeting I don't want to be late for, and second, we listen to them as nations, not as people." Alfred pouts a little at that, linking Matthew's arm with his.

"How was I supposed to know that?" He asks, letting the other subject drop. Matthew just gives him a look which clearly says, 'I told you, idiot,' but Alfred opts to ignore that in favour of further questioning. "So where's your meeting?"

"Your hotel," Matthew replies breezily, "Pierre is spying on Nixon I think." Alfred laughs at that. His natural paranoia would usually rear it's ugly head with any other nation, but the rivalry between their own bosses has been a source of morbid amusement for the nations lately.

"It's probably going both ways," Alfred replies wryly, "they really, really hate each other." Matthew nods, face brightening into what Alfred selfishly thinks of as his smile.

"Mm, he's not fond of you either," Matthew says and Alfred throws him a wounded look, one that's ridiculously exaggerated.

"And what did he have to say?" He asks in his best Arthur impression. Which, admittedly, is very good.

"He said living next to you is like being in bed with an elephant," Matthew replies, grin turning mischievous. Alfred absorbs this information before casting a slightly worried glance at his lover.

"I'm not that bad, am I?" He queries and Matthew giggles.

"No, but you do steal the covers," the Canadian says seriously. Alfred laughs at that, relief filling him and in a moment they are at the hotel. "I'll see you later then," Matthew says, and Alfred nods.

"Yeah, I should head back, Richard's probably annoyed that I went missing." He grins sheepishly at that and Matthew gives him a small push back in the direction they'd come from.

"Go," he says firmly, then disappears between double doors. Alfred grins happily despite the falsely curt order.

"It's a good day," he says to himself, "a damn good day."

xXxXx

Please read and review, I don't bite and love hearing what you've got to say. If I don't respond it's only because I became busy and I'll try and get back to you.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. Two chapters after this.

xXxXx

Rideau Canal, Ottawa, 1992

"See ya' twerp!" A blond boy calls over his shoulder as he skates down the canal. The boy he calls to, one much younger, tries to follow only to wobble dangerously. Alfred watches the exchange disapprovingly, watching to see if the boy will manage to regain his balance. He doesn't.

Quick as a flash Alfred is behind the young child, carefully keeping him standing. The little boy makes a noise, his own brown eyes staring up at Alfred in shock. "You okay champ?" Alfred asks, smiling a little. The boy just looks up at him and Alfred's smile pulls into a frown. "Are you hurt?" He asks and the boy sends him a strange look.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he says, though he doesn't shake off Alfred's steadying hand.

Alfred almost smacks himself in the forehead, forgetting that while he knows all his people, they don't all know him. "Right, I knew that," he assures the boy. Carefully he retracts his hand, then sticks it out in the common handshake gesture. "I'm Alfred Jones," he says, "see, not strangers anymore." The little brunet scowls at him in the way only small children can and crosses his chubby arms. He loses his balance a bit at that but Alfred steadies him.

"Nuh uh," he replies, "just 'cause I know your name doesn't mean you're not a stranger." Alfred sighs a bit at that and drops to one knee, looking the boy in the eyes.

"Alright," he concedes, "I'm Alfred Jones, I'm from Vermont, I'm 19 years old, my favourite food is hamburgers from McDonald's, I like dogs, the colours red, white and blue and my birthday is July 4th." He looks expectantly at the boy before adding, "am I still a stranger?"

The boy's brows furrow a little more as he considers the information he's just been presented with. Finally he makes a decision and thrusts out his small hand toward Alfred. "I'm Andrew Barnes," he replies firmly, allowing Alfred to shake his hand. "My favourite food is ice cream, I like dogs too, I'm from Detroit, my favourite colour is blue, my birthday is March 15th and I'm five almost six." Alfred grins at the boy, standing up. "If you're from Vermont why are you here?" The boy asks, placing a green mittened hand in taller man's own gloved one in a show of implicit trust.

"I'm visiting my very best friend in the whole world," Alfred replies seriously. Andrew looks around, as if trying to see Alfred's 'friend'.

"Where is he?" The five year old asks, looking around, and is unable to magically divine who this person might be. Alfred too looks around until he spots a familiar red covered head.

"Hey Mattie!" He calls, and Matthew quickly turns, fluid as water on his skates, and spotting Alfred weaves through the slightly crowded canal. He reaches Alfred and Andrew and raises a fine eyebrow at the sight of the two. "Matthew Williams, meet Andrew Barnes," Alfred says with a flourish. Andrew giggles at the display and Matthew just smiles at him.

"It's nice to meet you Andrew," he says, bowing a little and then holding out his hand to shake with Andrew. Andrew shakes the offered hand, also in a mitten, but doesn't let go, instead clinging to it. "What brings you out to the Rideau?" He asks and the boy pouts a little.

"John had work so we all came up so we could visit and mommy's looking for a dress so Susan went with her and Tom was supposed to teach me how to skate but he left. And he called me a twerp." Matthew nods sympathetically and Alfred makes a tutting noise.

"Is Tom your big brother?" Alfred asks and Andrew nods, slowly moving his feet, kept up by the two nations as they move slowly down the canal. "Well, big brothers are supposed to teach little brothers how to skate," he says sternly, "it's their job." Andrew nods in agreement.

"Did your big brother teach you how to skate?" He asks the two blonds. They share a look, Matthew remembering the way Francis refused to even try, and both remembering giggling as a swearing Arthur tried to keep up with his two tiny colonies.

"No," Matthew says, "we had to teach them." Andrew's eyes widen at this, small mouth falling open in awe.

"You had to teach hem,?" he asks, and giggles happily as they nod. "Awesome," he says, and Matthew laughs brightly.

"I suppose it is," he agrees and Alfred gives him his megawatt grin over the little boy's head. "Who want's hot chocolate?" Matthew asks and Andrew cries out happily, almost crowing in excitement while Alfred flashes Matthew a thumbs up with his free hand. With that Matthew gently lets go, easily gliding over to the stand selling the hot beverages.

"Hey Alfred," Andrew says watching Matthew skate away. "You're all grown up right? What do you do?" Alfred pauses, because he doesn't do anything right now, at least not anything which would interest a child, before recalling the job he'd last held.

"I'm a policeman in New York," he says and Andrew yells cool, losing his balance as he flails his one arm in excitement. Alfred gently guides the boy over to Matthew, who's returning with the cocoa, and the boy gladly accepts the drink, blowing it resolutely when Matthew warns him that it's hot.

"What do you do Matthew?" He asks and Matthew blinks for a moment before he says the first thing which comes to mind.

"I'm a journalist." He says, and Andrew looks questioningly at Alfred.

"Is that cool?" He asks and Alfred smothers a laugh.

"Oh yes," he agrees and Andrew flashes Matthew a relieved smile.

"Good," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "do you work in New York too?"

Matthew shakes his head, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. "No, I work in Montréal."

The boy looks at him blankly, "where's Moerayal?" He asks, stumbling over Matthew's instinctive pronunciation of the French word. Alfred laughs at the, snorting into his drink.

"Montreal," Matthew replies, switching to the English version, "it's in Québec." The boy thinks about it for a moment.

"I think I've heard of that," he says finally before he's distracted by the sound of a very annoyed woman.

"What do you mean you left him 'around here', he's five Tomas, you can't leave him alone in the middle of a foreign city." The trio watches as a woman who is obviously Andrew's mother berates a sulking blond teen.

"He's fine mom, he's almost six after all." A girl next to him, older than him, rolls her brown eyes and a black haired man gives him a disapproving look.

"You're such and idiot Tom," the girl says in disgust. Their mother looks as if she's about to agree, but Andrew happily calls out to them. Alfred lets go of his hand and the boy doesn't even notice, making his way over to his mother without either nation.

"Mom! Mom!" He calls, and his mother swoops to meet him, pulling him into a hug, somehow not spilling the hot chocolate. "I met these really awesome guys and they taught me to skate and they bought me hot chocolate and one, Alfred, works in New York as a policeman and Matthew is a journalist in Moerayal in Kaybek," he cries, even though his mother is right there.

The woman blinks blue eyes before trying to guess who 'Alfred' and 'Matthew' are. Her eyes land on the two blond not far away and they give matching sheepish waves. Immediately her gaze softens and she stands, taking her son's hand as she approaches them.

"Thank you for taking care of him," she says, "I know he can be a bit...rambunctious," she says, and Matthew laughs, waving the thank you away.

"No problem Ms.," he assures her "I followed Al around all through my childhood and he had, well has, the energy of a million five year olds on a sugar high." Alfred squawks at the description and Matthew hits him lightly upside the head. "Andrew was a dream in comparison."

Alfred puffs his cheeks out in defiance at his lover, "hey, I'm not the one who fed Arthur's slippers to my bea-bear sized dog, and I didn't refuse to eat and I'm not the one who brought wild animals home." Matthew sniffs in response, turning back to Andrew and his family.

"Honestly," the Canadian says, "he wasn't a problem." He turns to Tomas, who's still looking put out and gives him a soft but clearly disappointed look. "But you can not leave your little brother alone in a big city, foreign or otherwise," the boy flushes a bit at that, and Alfred holds back a laugh. Matthew being disappointed is the worst thing basically ever and Alfred can sympathize with the boy. Matthew is very good at seeming disappointed, and very good at guilt tripping. Alfred has seen it many times, and the boy is obviously no exception.

"Just don't do it again kiddo," Alfred says and the blond nods. "Well then, all better," he declares. Kneeling, he looks at Andrew, "have fun, okay champ," he says and the little boy nods before throwing his arms around him in a hug.

"Okay," he chirps, going to wrap Matthew's knees in a hug as well. Matthew chuckles and pats his head, waving as the family leaves. Alfred waves too and once they're out of range he turns to Matthew, a lusty grin on his face.

"How 'bout we go warm up?" He offers and Matthew grins back, placing a quick peck on Alfred's cheek.

"Sure thing, cowboy," he breaths and Alfred pumps his fist, whooping in joy. Cowboys always mean kinky Matthew, and a kinky Matthew is a happy Alfred.

xXxXx

Aaand, please leave a review, no matter how short, I'm a complete review slut. No joke.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. No cowboy sex, sorry, and this is the second last chapter. We're almost done!

xXxXx

"Barnes," comes a voice from behind a young brunet, "get your gear, we're responding to a car accident on the corner of 7th and West 55th." The young man turns towards his supervisor before grabbing his coat, badge and gun.

"Don't we usually leave things like that to whoever's on patrol?" Barnes asks, exiting the building with his partner and getting into their car. The man, an average man with sharp green eyes shrugs, revving the engine.

"It's a weird case, apparently," Jonathan Stone, a fairly senior cop says, "patrol doesn't know what to do with it." Andrew Barnes, aged 22 and fresh out of police academy raises an eyebrow. Nothing is too weird for New York. He doesn't say that though, and soon enough, by New York standards anyway, they're pulling over at the corner of 7th and 55th.

At first the scene looks normal for a car accident. The driver is looking shocked, there's an empty vehicle with obvious damage and an ambulance waiting to help people. However, certain key aspects of the usual car crash are missing. First, is the other car which could be the only thing to have damaged a car like this. Next, isn't a thing, but rather the paramedics composure.

As a general rule emergency personnel are rarely if ever in a panic. That is not the case with these two men. The paramedics are fussing over a blond somebody not visible enough for the two men to see what gender they are, while a much calmer blond male leans against the ambulance, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in displeasure but not anger or grief, at the driver of the car. Stone and Barnes both step out of their car and all the attention is on them. One of the patrolmen sighs in relief, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You make sense of this," he tells Stone jabbing him in the chest. The other, a woman rolls her eyes at her partners back and gives them a wave before following the irate man.

Andrew turns toward to car driver who's looking shaken and confused. "I don't understand," the man said, "one minute he wasn't there and the next he was and then he went flying and I was spinning and that one stopped by car with his fist and then went to get his friend. I get out, all panicked and ready to apologize in ways I couldn't even fathom for killing the guy and he stands up and asks me if I got hurt!" The man's blue eyes are a little wild and he tugs at his greying hair in a clearly stressed manner. Stone raises an eyebrow before turning to the car.

"I'll get the breathalyzer," he says dryly, "you talk to the other two." Barnes nods his head, turning towards the ambulance. As he approaches he can hear snippets of conversation.

"Sir, are you sure you're not hurt?" Comes one paramedic's voice.

"I'm sure," comes a much calmer one, "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience this must be causing, but you've checked both of us as well as that poor man with the car, I think we can agree everyone's fine, yes?" The paramedic nods miserably and the man stands up.

Andrew goes still when he finally sees the 'victims' face. It's pale, with blue eyes and glasses and very kind. He slowly turns towards the other man, who is slightly more tan but he too has blue eyes, glasses and a kind face. Andrew knows these faces. They're what made him want to be a police officer, and they're supposed to be a solid seventeen years older now. Instead, both men look exactly the same, in fact, they look younger than Andrew now. It's simply not possible.

Still, the impossibility of it all doesn't stop him from blurting out their names. "Alfred and Matthew?" He asks incredulously and they share slightly amused looks with one another.

"I'm surprised you remembered us," 'Matthew', if that's really his name, says. "It's lovely to see you."

"Yeah!" Enthuses the man who calls himself Alfred, "and you became a cop, very cool." He's grinning broadly, all traces of annoyance gone and, much to Andrew's surprise, he pulls him into a hug. "How're your siblings? And your mom? She still with John?" Andrew blinks, surprised that anyone would remember little details like that about a five year old they met seventeen years ago.

"Susan's good, just had another kid, that makes four, she's on mat leave but she's a primary teacher, loves kids. Tom's actually a lawyer, has a firm in Florida, lucky bastard." He flashes a wary grin at them and they both smile encouragingly. "Mom and John are going strong, they're actually in Rome for their second honeymoon." He pauses awkwardly, before adding, "you guys look good."

They laugh, Alfred loud and boisterous and Matthew quieter but nonetheless emphatic. Matthew looks at his watch and murmurs something Andrew doesn't catch. "We already gave statements," he tells Andrew, fine brows drawn together in a slightly worried manner, "and we should really get home, we have to be up early to catch a plane tomorrow."

Andrew nods and pulls out his notepad. "Just run through it once more," he says, "then you can both go." Matthew nods and turns to Alfred.

"Should I?" He asks and Alfred nods.

"Yeah, you were still getting checked out when I gave my statement so this way they can cross reference it."

"Alright, it's simple really, we were crossing the street and that fine gentleman failed to see us. He did so at the last minute and swerved, hitting that telephone pole. I guess he was just so confused he thought he hit me, but he didn't." Andrew notes it all down, despite something telling him it's a totally bogus story and gestures for them to leave. Stone comes over to him, scratching his head.

"Guy's clean, you let those two leave?" Andrew nods and the two climb back in their car, heading back to the station.

"Hey Jonathan," Andrew asks slowly, "is there such thing as too weird for New York?" Jonathan pauses, obviously thinking, before he shakes his head.

"Nope." he says simply, and that is that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be

**Rating: **M. And it's not just for swearing.

**Pairings:** America/Canada/America

**Warnings: **Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.

**Disclaimer:** Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.

**Author's Notes:** De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. We are now officially at the end, so I'd just like to extend thanks to everyone who faved, alerted and _especially_ to those who reviewed, they mean a lot to me, they really do. Hopefully everyone enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and you'll see more from me, I promise.

xXxXx

"I can't believe you wouldn't join the mile high club with me," Alfred teases as Matthew fixes his tie. Matthew doesn't bother to answer, instead rolling his eyes, grinning fondly.

"I can't believe you don't know how to tie your tie after so many decades," he chides lightly and Alfred grins, hugging him to his chest.

"Maybe I do know," he says softly, nose to nose with his lover, "maybe I just like being able to swoop my handsome and wonderful lover up for a kiss." Matthew giggles a little at that, not pulling away.

"Who says your handsome and wonderful lover will be giving you a kiss?" he asks innocently and Alfred growls playfully, nipping at Matthew's lower lip.

"Oh I think he will," he says sagely before pressing his lips against Matthew's. It's slow and sweet and fairly chaste, Matthew's lips are a little chapped, but he's smiling and still very warm and Alfred couldn't care less. "I love you," he murmurs against Matthew's mouth, also grinning. Matthew pulls away, violet eyes shining.

"I love you too," Matthew tells him, patting him on the chest once before turning away. "But we have a meeting," he says firmly, pulling Alfred out of the room towards the elevator.

"I know," Alfred sighs, pouting a little. "Kissing you is much funner than a meeting."

"More fun," Matthew says wryly, pushing the down button.

"Channelling the queen mum?" Alfred teases, bouncing slightly as he waits for the elevator. Matthew doesn't respond, just flashes him a look which says 'be nice'. Alfred grins back, clearly saying 'maybe', just as the elevator dings and opens.

"America-san," Japan greets Alfred softly as the two North American nations enter the elevator. Japan, as well as both Italies and a hungover looking Denmark are already cramped into the little space. They all greet Alfred in some way or another, Italy with a loud 'hiiii,', his brother with a scowl and Denmark with a wince and a nod.

Alfred gives them all a grin back, his natural gregariousness taking over. Matthew doesn't really mind that no one seems to notice him as he prefers to watch. He stands silently next to Alfred, who at some point pushes against him gently as if to say, 'I know you're here, don't worry'. Matthew grins at that, but it dies as the door opens again to reveal Arthur, Francis, Spain and Iceland.

"Bonjour mes amours," Francis greeted grandly, somehow managing to swoop into the elevator, lack of room or not.

"Shut it frog," Arthur mutters sourly, obviously just as hungover as Denmark.

Francis ignores him, placing a kiss on Alfred cheek. "Alfred, it has been so long," he coos and immediately all the non North Americans in the elevator shift to eye Alfred. The American doesn't notice, but Matthew does and something in the back of his mind starts to warn him that today will not go well.

"Frog," Arthur warns and Francis waves a hand at him.

"Oh hush mon cher," Francis says softly and Arthur huffs at him but doesn't speak again. "Ah, and mon lapin," Francis says, eye lighting up as they settle on Matthew, "how have you been, you never call anymore." It sounds teasing but Matthew can hear the reprimand in it and blushes a little.

He's about to respond when the elevator finally reaches their floor and everyone exits with a sigh of relief. "Thank god," Alfred mutters to Matthew, and the nations all enter their meeting room. Prepared for seven hours of insanity, but no one really relishing the thought.

The nations get through three of seven hours and a hectic lunch hours fairly easily before it all goes to hell.

"So like," Poland stands as Lithuania gets up to present something or other, "before we listen to Liet's totally dull but still like, super important speech-thingy, there is something we like, totally need to clarify."

Lithuania freezes, green eyes wide in what could only be horror. "Feliks," he warns, "we can not ask him that quest-"

"We like totally can," Poland says with an eye roll, "it's like, totally sad, he's like, three hundred or whatever." With that he turns to Alfred and Matthew and, in all seriousness, asks, in front of everybody, "America, are you like, a virgin or not?"

Alfred freezes, blue eyes wide. "What?"

"Surely you heard him comrade," comes Russia's voice, "are you a virgin?" Alfred blushes in what Matthew is almost a hundred percent sure is anger, not embarrassment, and narrows his eyes.

"No," he grinds out, "I am not a virgin." Francis shakes his head sadly, leaning forward.

"Admit it mon petit, it is true, we asked everyone."

"Even me," comes the sound of a thoroughly displeased Cuba, "I told them fuck no." Alfred twitches a little, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Obviously you didn't ask everyone," Alfred manages, feeling slighted not only on his part but also on Matthew's. Honestly. They have some of the closest trade and military ties in the world, how did no one catch on?

Alfred watches, arms crossed, as the nations mutter amongst themselves. Next to him Matthew is shaking in silent laughter and Alfred turns to him, unable to stop the pout which forms. "They probably think you're a virgin too," he tells his lover quietly as the others try and figure out who they forgot.

"Oh no doubt," Matthew admits, looking around, "pure as the driven snow." Alfred snorts at this and Matthew gives him a wicked grin.

"They wouldn't say that if they knew the things you can do with your tongue," Alfred says not paying any more attention to the others. Matthew shrugs a little before tangling his fingers with Alfred's.

"Then I guess they'll never know." Francis, who has been watching them, raises his left eyebrow, comprehension dawning.

"Oh my," he says quietly, but it still catches everyone's attention. Matthew fails, completely, to stop the blush which heats up his face and Alfred cocks an eyebrow. "I apologize for forgetting you mon ange," Francis murmurs from his position directly across the table, "I admit I assumed you had little interest in such things. I thought that good old English repression had gotten to you."

Matthew gives Francis a little grin, 'a smaller one than iI/i get', the southern blond thinks smugly, and flushes a little, though he doesn't try and remove his hands from Alfred's firm but gentle grip. "Well," he says vaguely, trying to put iIt/i in words. iIt/i is what Alfred calls their relationship because he firmly believes that after so long they've moved past the boyfriend and dating stage. Some people would call it a relationship and leave it at that but Alfred knows that iIt/i needs something more. He just isn't sure what.

"I understand mon bijoux," Francis says in that tone of voice which almost makes all the times he's royally fucked up concerning Matthew stop mattering. Almost. Next to him Arthur's eyes are hard and he looks displeased and unimpressed.

"Matthew, can I speak to you outside," He says, not asks, in the same tone father use on their teenage girls when they say 'and what exactly are you planning on doing dressed like ithat/i?'. Matthew cringes a little before standing and following Arthur out of the room.

The taller blond wearily watches the green eyed nation pace a little before the Brit finally speaks. "I'm aware," he starts slowly, in a rather calculated manner, "that I do not necessarily have the right to intrude on this matter, but I think I shall choose to do so anyway." He turns to fully look at Matthew and there's something in his gaze which catches Matthew completely off guard. Worry.

"I just don't understand how this could have happened," Arthur says, and it's rushed and awkward and obviously, Matthew thinks, the older nation is having trouble with these feeling things.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asks, because he really doesn't know. Arthur makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat.

"Matthew," he says, "Alfred is the only one who's ever attacked you. Ever." His green eyes have hardened and Matthew can't stop the words that come out next.

"So? He's hardly the only one who ever hurt me."

Arthur gives him a look and continues, "no. He's not. But he's the one who hurt you most. I mean, he burnt down your capital, he killed your people, he tried to invade, he strangled you." The last thing makes Matthew pause because it's true.

Matthew and Alfred have talked twice about that night, and both times ended with Alfred disappearing into the unknown parts of America for a month or six. Matthew knows that should something ever happen between them Alfred will win, it's a given, but he also knows that Alfred wouldn't hurt him.

"Alfred may be childish," Matthew says patiently, "but he's not a child any more. He's an adult. And he will always have a little something lurking around in the back of his head telling him how easy it would be to take over someone, myself included. He's a super power. At least for now." Matthew lays a hand on the Brit's tense forearm. For a minute it looks like Arthur is going to shake the hand off but he doesn't, actually softening his posture a little. "Alfred and I have been through a lot Arthur," Matthew says, "and I trust him more than anyone else in the world." Arthur's eyes search his, for what Matthew doesn't know before he sighs.

"Sometimes I wonder what happened. I remember nights where you two were curled up and I'd tell you a story. I remember days where we'd go for a walk and I'd end up lost in the wood while you two ran around," he gives Matthew a rare smile before he scratches his tussled hair. "I wonder where the time went."

Matthew smiles back, even if it's a little sad, and rather compulsively hugs the stuffy man. "Away," he says simply, "so we'll just have make new time." Arthur chuckles, hugging back in a ridiculously stiff way.

"Smart lad," he says before pulling away and Matthew turns back to the door.

"I should probably save Al," he considers before he turns back to Arthur, "would you like to go skating this winter?" He asks innocently. Arthur flushes narrowing his eyes and Matthew quickly darts back into the meeting room, laughing.

Inside Alfred is sulking as Francis, now perched on the table, legs cross and peering down at Alfred questions him softly.

"Ça va?" Matthew asks Francis who flashes him the worst innocent smile ever. Ivan included.

"Ah oui," the Frenchman provides breezily, sliding off the table and sauntering back over to his side. "I was simply asking Alfred something." Alfred flushes a little and Matthew suppresses a snicker.

"Bloody frog," Arthur says taking his seat. Francis waves his hand in a gesture which clearly says 'yes yes' before he turns to Germany and Lithuania. "Now, isn't there a bloody speech to be had? Lets get on with it," Lithuania nods, scrambling to comply and Matthew and Alfred grin when they hear the quiet "I need a sodding gin," added to the Brit's sentence.

Lithuania starts to speak and Alfred immediately zones. Matthew tries to pay attention but Alfred's tracing tiny circles on his inner thigh, long fingers working almost unconsciously. Eventually Matthew grabs the wandering hand, squeezing it lightly. Alfred grins, squeezing back just as lightly and Matthew smiles a soft happy smile.

"I love you," he whispers and Alfred smiles back, all warmth and sunshine and Alfred.

"Love you too Mattie," Alfred says.

Later they go back to their room and exhausted find themselves tangled together on the small bed. "This really shouldn't be comfortable," Alfred says quietly.

Matthew just grins back a little and says, "geography."


End file.
